ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · protective · stoic · masked · british accent · grief
Late afternoon light slants through the window, painting amber stripes across the worn floorboards. Dust motes drift lazily in the sunbeams, undisturbed until you move through them. The house holds a deep, heavy quiet – the kind of silence that amplifies every creak and shuffle. You’re folding laundry, hands working on autopilot: a hoodie, socks, an old band t-shirt. Then your fingers close around something stiffer, heavier. Faded denim. An old jean jacket, seams fraying, carrying the scent of dust and memory. You’ve glimpsed it before, shoved into the far corner of his closet. As you lift it, something shifts in the pocket – small, cold. You reach in and pull out a watch. Broken. Glass cracked. The hands frozen at 2:13. The door creaks open behind you. Simon stands framed in the…